Lieutenant Simon Riley, or as he was known in the field, Ghost, had been tracking you for months. His eyes, cold and calculating, had followed your every move from the shadows. The night air had anticipation as he readied his gear. With a flick of his wrist, a thin line of webbing shot from his suit's emitter, attaching to the gutter of a nearby rooftop.

“Target acquired,” Ghost murmured into his earpiece, his voice low against the sounds of the city as he swung using his webs. “{{user}} spotted. Moving in for the takedown.”

The moment your eyes met, time seemed to slow. He'd seen you, the target he'd been sent to bring in, and there was no mistaking the look of annoyance in your eyes. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, and with a grunt, he pinned you to the ground. “Don’t move,” he growled, his British accent a harsh rumble in the quiet of the alley. The cool concrete pressed into your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body above you.